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The morning sun peeked through the narrow gap in Charlie’s curtain, casting a thin line of gold across her duvet. She blinked into the light, rolled over, and buried her face in the pillow, heart already uneasy. It was Saturday. No classes, no tutorials. Just time, stretching ahead like a blank page.
But her mind kept circling back to the poster:
"Communication Skills Workshop – Sign Up Now!"
She hadn't told anyone she had seen it. Not Zina. Not Maya. It felt too fragile to speak aloud, like saying it would somehow make it real and worse, make it something she could fail at.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Zina:
“Going to Buchanan Galleries later. Come with?”
Charlie stared at it. She could say yes, pretend everything was fine, drown in the comfort of shopping and chatter. But instead, her thumb hovered and then slowly typed:
“Thanks, but I have a few things to sort out today.”
Half a truth. Enough to hold her still.
She got out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. Her eyes were tired. Her face, blank. She didn’t look brave. She didn’t feel brave.
But she got dressed anyway.
---
The skills centre was quiet. Just a few students trickling in for weekend practice or small group sessions. She found the door marked “Workshop Room 3” and paused.
Her hand rested on the door handle, fingers cold.
What if they all know what they’re doing? What if I freeze up? What if I make a fool of myself?
A laugh floated down the hall, light and unbothered. It jolted her. Everyone else was already living their stories. Why couldn’t she try?
She pushed the door open.
There were six other students inside. No one looked particularly confident. One girl clutched a notebook to her chest. A tall guy with glasses stood awkwardly in the corner, biting his thumbnail. Another girl smiled and waved. Charlie offered a small nod back and sat down quietly in the nearest chair.
“Welcome, everyone,” the facilitator said, a woman in her thirties with warm eyes and a calm voice. “This isn’t about being perfect. This is about practice. You’re safe here.”
Charlie let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.
The session began with introductions. Name, year, and what brought them to the workshop. When it was her turn, Charlie hesitated, her pulse pounding. But then, softly and carefully, she spoke.
“I’m Charlie. First year nursing. I struggle with speaking up. In class. In groups. I want to feel more prepared. For placement.”
A pause. Then a few nods. Someone murmured, “Same here.” Her cheeks burned, but not from shame. From relief.
They moved on to role play scenarios. Charlie dreaded this. The others went first, stumbling, laughing, trying again. When it was her turn, she stepped forward with trembling hands.
The scenario was simple. Break bad news gently to a patient. The facilitator played the patient.
Charlie inhaled deeply.
“I’m sorry to bring this news,” she began slowly, eyes fixed on the floor. “But we’ve received the test results, and I’d like to explain what they mean for your health, and how we can support you from here…”
The words weren’t perfect. Her voice wavered. But she finished.
Silence followed.
Then, “You showed empathy,” the facilitator said. “And you stayed with the patient emotionally. That’s one of the hardest things to learn.”
Charlie blinked.
Had she really done okay?
---
By the end of the two hour session, something had shifted. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was real.
She walked out into the afternoon sun, blinking like she’d come up for air. Her phone buzzed again. Another message from Zina:
“Hope your day’s been good! Let’s catch up soon?”
This time, Charlie smiled.
“Yes, definitely. I’ll tell you all about it.”
She wandered slowly back to her flat, taking a longer route. She passed the hospital gates, her placement site. Just a few weeks away now. The sight used to fill her with dread. Now, it still scared her, but the fear no longer paralysed her.
There was a part of her, a small quiet part, that believed she might manage it.
That evening, Charlie opened her notebook again. The last page still held her old question:
"How do I speak up when no one’s listening?"
Underneath, she wrote:
"Maybe it starts with listening to myself."
- Writer
